guidance

Flashback ~ Permission For Grace

Permission For Grace

Hello brave ones,

This is a post from ages ago. Three years to be exact but it has been a topic of constant conversation these days.

When do you take the leap to change?

I like the idea of permission, and I LOVE the concept of Grace.

So today, if you’re contemplating listening to your gut. Or you’ve already taken the leap and you feel like you’re in free-fall—maybe this will help.
That’s always my wish.

Carry on,
xox


Both feet have to leave the ground to leap.
Ohhhhhh Shiiiiiiit!

and therein lies the rub.

When am I ready to leap you ask? Uh, just this side of NEVER!

We seldom feel like we’re ready….it just isn’t the right time…not yet.

But what the hell are we waiting for?
An illness?
Divorce?
The empty nest?
More diplomas?
Losing a job?
More zeros in our bank account (Ahhh, now I’m getting warmer) but how many are enough?

How about PERMISSION?
The WORD from God-on-high that all systems are go, and you’re ready for launch.
That’s what I want!
That’s what we all want. Right?

But you know what you guys? We’ve got that. We have our internal guidance, our intuition, our gut, to let us know when we’re getting close.

We’ve all been there. You get that restless feeling.

You start asking life WAY too many questions.

You feel as if you can’t continue to do that thing you’ve been doing for one. more. minute.

That to me, signals one foot off the ground.

Then I have to suck up every ounce of courage to trust those signals, and
Lift. The. Other. Foot.

Permission is Grace’s secret weapon.

If you give enough value to the signs; the synchronicity, that jumpy little feeling in your belly, and you turn away from the fear and doubt and really show up for yourself; you grant Permission.
Permission’s bodyguards, Faith and Courage, then clear the path for Grace to enter.

Then you know what Grace does?
She lends you her hand and helps you balance…
so you can lift your other foot to leap.

Xox

Don’t EVER Shush A Woman!


After waking up at 4 am to catch a 7 am flight back to LA, I braved a dark and frigid Vancouver morning

Once through security and my full body scan, (you can’t be too careful when it comes to us pasty, gray-haired fifty-something jihadists), I hurried up and waited.  That gave me a chance to get all caught up on the breaking news in the US (of which I have been blissfully unaware of for three days), thanks to a giant TV screen every three feet.

That’s when I saw it.

The Senate, led by the majority leader Mitch McConnell had shushed Elizabeth Warren!

Fueled by a profound lack of sleep, too much airport coffee, and a red-hot rage, I may have yelled back at the TV, “Oh, now you’ve done it! You don’t ever shush a woman!”

No crowd gathered. No one shouted their agreement (because it was before five in the morning and the only ones who heard it were a janitor cleaning the carpets…and a potted plant. Still! You guys! Seriously?

EVERY man knows that if he wants to live to see his next birthday—you don’t tell a woman she is overreacting —and you never try to shush her—in public. EVER! Most especially Senator Elizabeth Warren.

“What is wrong with you fools!” I may have sneered under my breath but still loud enough for the carpet cleaner to hear it over his machine and jerk his head in my direction. Soon there were hand gestures and some fist waving. “Don’t cite some archaic rule and twist it into a mandate fitting your agenda. Jesus on a cracker! Do you not have wives? Daughters? Someone you love who has a vagina and was born in the 20th century? I KNOW you don’t get away with this at home!”

In reality, they shushed two women when they forbid her to speak. She was reading a letter penned by Coretta Scott King back in the 1980’s in which she was criticizing Jeff Sessions who was then a nominee to become a federal judge.

No big deal. Just the widow of civil-rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

It seemed apropos to read it aloud seeing that now he’s nominated to become the Attorney General. Right? I mean are we so far through the looking glass…? Let’s see…too racially biased to be a judge…perhaps not fit to…you get the picture.

Sadly, they are trying to shush us all.

Oh, brother, this gets my hackles up. This boils my blood. Big Time.
Luckily for the gathering crowd at gate 82, I was obligated to hurl through the air at five hundred miles per hour in a metal tube for three hours. It gave me a chance to cool off. I hadn’t planned on writing anything but I have two plus hours up here with no internet and I’ve finished my People magazine–so here goes.
Here is me cooled off:

Dear House and Senate,
If you think you can shush us women into submission—you have another thing coming you silly, silly men. Weren’t our marches on Washington, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, London, Paris, Rome…just adorable? With our knitted caps and cardboard signs? Aren’t our phone campaigns that fill your inboxes to capacity just darling?
You ain’t seen nothing yet. You will hear our voices in every way imaginable.

You may have won the battle but you will not win this war.

Okay. I’m beyond tired. I’m going to bed.

Who’s with me? Not in bed…in outrage?
xox

Are You Feeling The “Collective Pain”? ~ By Danielle LaPorte

Love. This.
Carry on
xox


A lot of us are experiencing our own personal pain AND tapping into global, collective pain at the same time.

We’re marching, or emphatically not marching.
We’re crying in the kitchen, out of the blue. We’re heavy with emotion by noon.

My loves, it’s critical that you let the pain move through you. You have to keep letting it go. And like, there’s no need to worry about being too detached from what’s going on. Because there’s new pain arriving daily. If you’re awake you will hurt. I’m with you…in profound agony over the state of the world. And, my faith and resolve are brighter than my doubt and stronger than my grief.

It’s an hourly practice to find that balance.

Feel it, fully, but don’t grip the pain and use it to bolster your position or identity. Holding on to pain is how you get bitter and brittle, and incidentally, much less effective.

It’s a feminine skill to process other people’s pain. Empathy. Whole humans feel things. Deeply. And then the heart wants to make something with the pain — to run it through its ventricles and transmute it into goodness. It’s a beautiful inclination. But we’ve got to keep our “pain processing for other people” in check or it will bring us down.

We might tell ourselves that taking on the collective pain is a form of being of service.
And it is — we’re in this together. But too much of that is martyrdom. And when you’re a martyr you become a burden on the system.
The pathway to the conscious management of psychic pain:
1. Feel your own pain. Analyze why YOU are personally affected.

  1. And if you’re able, try to let it go by the end of the day if not sooner. Of course this is nearly impossible. But the intention will create a shift.

  2. Observe other people’s pain. Seek to understand it. Relate or sympathize.

  3. And if you’re able, let it go by the end of the day if not sooner. Very difficult to do, but NOT impossible. And then…return to your personal gratitude and power. Because… you must be in touch with your own blessings in order to be of service.

This is a daily practice because we’re all in pain. Humans, animals, Mother Earth…all hurting, badly. We have to let go of the pain on a regular basis so that it doesn’t backlog and turn into inflammation, depression, confusion. Or worse, blind rage.

Everyday, let it go. Give it up to Life, to God, to the cosmos and trust that we have the strength to heal. Speak out. Get a therapist for the sole reason of talking about world events and your rage and feelings of helplessness — and empowerment. Please, move. Get to a yoga class, or run your ass off a few times a week — for emotional reasons, not just for your ass. Dance! You’ve got to move the pain out of your body and psyche so that you can keep going. And we need to keep going.

If each of us made the effort to let go of pain and return to trust then there would be less pain in the atmosphere.
And with less pain in the atmosphere not only can we see more clearly and make more of an impact, but the low vibration stuff and fear-mongers have nothing to feed on and nowhere to hide. (Negative energies can turn a cloud of fear into a shit storm. So let’s not feed the cloud.)

Confront the pain with your unwavering trust and gratitude for being alive. This is where the limitless power is. Pain release and faith are a very effective way to serve. Every day. Over and over again… so we are free to rise.

Yessss. Press share to all the deep feelers in your life. xo

http://www.daniellelaporte.com

Sunday Nugget. Look After Each Other and Don’t Be An Asshole

12 Things That Require Zero Talent

11.) Starring in a reality show.

12.) Having a blog. 😉

Happy weekend you guys,
xox

Flashback ~ The “I Can Have It If I Really Want It” Game

image

This is a re-tooling of a post I wrote several years ago.

OMG! You guys! I have to tell you what a fucking relief it was to make this tiny tweak in my belief about what was possible for me to have in my life!

Here it is in a nutshell: No dream is impossible. There is ALWAYS a way. Some ways are risky, fast and impractical, others take time and careful planning. Many take both. 

The choice is yours.

Everyone will weigh in. Ignore them! Do what feels comfortable, scratch that, I recommend reaching just a little bit out of your comfort zone for your dreams. It makes life so much more interesting!

Take a few risks.
Pick the road less traveled.
Occasionally drink wine before noon.

As my friend, Steph Jagger would tell you “Lift your restraining device and accept the call to adventure.”

And Carry on,
xox


We’ve all been bitten by the ugly green ENVY monster, especially when other people’s fabulous lives are vomited all over social media.
“Where’s my great kitchen?  “Why aren’t I wintering in the Maldives? ” They bought another car?” “Shit, I know that jacket, that jacket costs eight grand!”

Waaaah, Waaaah, Woe is me…where’s MY stuff?

I turned this around for myself years ago and then shared my devious little plan (insert diabolical laugh here) with my husband – who has turned it into an art form.

Seriously. He should hold seminars.

When I saw someone with something I really wanted, like a ten thousand dollar handbag, or a Tuscan Villa, instead of thinking that’s impossible for me and turning into a sad sack — I’d sit down and make a plan. I enlisted the same part of my brain that talks me OUT of everything fun—to talk myself INTO making it happen.

I Could Have That If I Really Wanted It —I’d tell myself — and it’s true.

If I wanted a wildly extravagant vacation, I could sell some jewelry, cash in my 401K, borrow money, even take out a loan. I could do all those things.

IF I really, really wanted it, I could make it happen.

The same is true for almost anything you desire. You CAN have it — but it’ll cost ya.
If it’s a price you’re willing to pay, great! If not, put a picture of it on your Pinterest page and keep living your life.

Guess what? It may still show up!

A friend Alex wanted a husband. A rich husband. So she made sure she was impeccably manicured, coiffed, waxed and outfitted; ready at a moment’s notice to accept only the BEST party invitations with only the BEST men in attendance. Even though I admired her commitment, I admit I often scoffed at her strategy. It seemed shallow and wildly expensive. She would just smile at me, undeterred. Three years later Alex married a billionaire businessman she met at a diplomatic dinner party in NY.

The bottom line is this — it is a choice. YOU make the choice. It’s not impossible, it just may be impractical, there’s a difference.

Impossible = says NEVER. That deflates me. Like a pair of saggy boobs, it leaves me feeling limp and disempowered.

Impractical Practicality (a term I made up)= says MAYBE. It feels hopeful. Like a calculated risk.

Sell everything and travel around the world skiing like Steph did sounds crazy, right? Only here’s what she did to make that happen. She did careful research in order to pick the destinations, plotted and planned. She got a loan on her house (gulp), saved her ass off and drained her savings. When others, like her dad, questioned her sanity, she just smiled the same undeterred smile as Alex. She wanted it THAT bad.

Now THAT feels empowering.

I wanted to own a house which is impossible when at the age of forty you‘ve only managed to save $1.57.
But I was ready, and it was time. How am I going to make this happen?  I wondered.
I had refused to believe it was impossible, so I made a plan. It actually played out as a mix of practical and impractical. I’d have to bank every cent of my income, adhering to an austerity program that would make the rationing in communist Russia look extravagant.

I’d have to practice wildly impractical practicality for one year — to gain the impossible — and I did.

At forty years old I put all my things in storage, moved into a room at my sister’s with my two cats and saved every nickel I made. I sold watches and jewelry, silver, and anything else valuable that I had collected over the years as an antique jeweler. I also put a large chunk of what I’d saved in the stock market, for the short-term. Very risky, I know, but I made out like a bandit. Impractical you say? Yep. But I was trying to make the impossible happen.

I brainstormed and researched areas I’d like to live in, forgoing my daily Starbucks, nixing the mani-pedi’s, and living on salads made at home. I tried to borrow money at different points during the year, to expedite things and was met with a tight fist every time. That should have discouraged me but I was in so deep at that point it only strengthened my resolve.

Eventually, the perfect house, in the perfect price range, in the perfect neighborhood showed up — exactly one year later, and not a moment too soon according to my cats.

I’ve often found that if you believe the impossible is possible — the Universe provides.

Years ago, my husband was going on and on about a certain car. The car of his dreams.
“Buy it!” I said. “It’s too expensive.” he shot back, without hesitation.

You could afford it if you sold some things, you have thousands of dollars of motorcycle crap…” he flinched as if he’d taken a punch, “It’s all just lying around, gathering dust. Sell it!”

“First of all, that stuff is NOT crap, and second of all, it wouldn’t make a dent in the price of that car.” He sounded…deflated.

“Yeah, but it’ll get the ball rolling. Put the word out that you want that car, it’s not impossible if you really want it — you’ll find the money.

He looked at me sideways, but the next day I noticed that his screen saver was a gorgeous vanity shot of that car.
Within a year, he drove it into our driveway.
I nicknamed it The Vomit Comet. Too much car for me. I couldn’t ride in it without getting carsick. Eventually, the bloom fell off the rose and he sold it — and put that money toward the next vehicle of his dreams. He got that car and then realized — it goes too fast, you can never use all that power off a racetrack.

NEXT!  He’s got this down to a science.

NOTHING is impossible. It’s all a choice.

Carry on,

xox

The Christmas Avatar

*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas past. I think it was way back in a simpler time — 2013.

Anyhow…it’s a crowd favorite, the number one most requested holiday post because it’s all about my husband and everybody roots for my hubby. Right? I mean, he tolerates me and that is no small feat.

He’s no saint, believe you me. He’s a procrastinator extraordinaire as this story will reveal, and a curmudgeon rapscallion of epic proportions.  HOWEVER, all that being said, the man never ceases to amaze me with his common decency.

Here on Earth 2.0, I miss common decency. I think we all do.

So here’s a dollop courtesy of my own, personal Avatar. I’m immensely grateful for him, all of you, and your decency and continued loyalty. Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and an amazing 2019!
xox


AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.

I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is an understatement!
And since he’s French there’s also a certain irony there.

On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.

But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
Devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and the sex.

Anyway…
I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out after a glass of wine on one of our early dates, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover he had made a run for it!

But he didn’t.

It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way—so I should have seen this coming.

For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in “beings” of higher wisdom. So, I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to completely ignore me and practically fall all over themselves (in a nebulous, ghosty way), calling him “Great Avatar”.

Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.

What? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Uh, nope. Nothing like that.

More like the Robin to his Batman.
The Abbot to his Costello.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Elaine to his Jerry.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.

Well, not exactly. I have to aquiece to the undenialble fact that, gulp,
He is my teacher.
I am grasshopper.

I just rolled my eyes, thinking that infinite wisdom must have mistakenly ‘Avatared’ the wrong guy—but the irefutable proof of it happened again—for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve day.

He told me the story with tears in his eyes that night on our way to dinner.

He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th of December to start his holiday shopping.

So…there he was driving while famished, navigating an overcrowded parking lot with nothing to sustain him.

He had becoome Hangry (hungry + angry).
You get the picture.

Finally, after circling eight-thousand times, he saw a car ready to pull out of its space so he positioned himself, left blinker on, and waited…and waited…while the person sloooooowy backed out of the coveted spot. Meanwhile, on the other side of them was a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband seeing what was about to happen, aggressively blocked the spot with his black Porsche and pulled in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t do it!)

As the pickup truck drove off, the driver made eye contact and flipped my husband the middle finger.

Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But still, it was Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!

No matter. He walked into a local joint to grab a quick burger and realized while he was eating, that middle-finger-pickup-truck-guy was eating with some of his buddies a few tables over.

So, he got out a pen and wrote a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and handed it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and left.

The note read:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.

While walking away he glanced back to see the guy showing the note to his buddies as he stood up to search the cafe for this mystery Santa.

So decent, right? It brought tears to my eyes you guys!

He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
(And said without any eyeroll whatsoever) It is an honor to be his consort/grasshopper.

Merry Christmas everybody!
Xox

Masters In Disguise ~ Humanity In A Cup

There are Masters walking among us you guys. Teachers. Wise ones.

They don’t wear white robes. They don’t levitate or walk on water (well, not in public).

They wear the disguise of a mere mortal.

Sometimes, the ones we tend to overlook the easiest. The unassuming. The forgotten.

The harried waitress, the sweet kid at the Christmas tree lot, the homeless guy in front of Starbucks.

Read this short story about just such a Master from my wickedly talented writer, sister-friend, Mel—in my other sister-friend’s new magazine! #lovemytribe

Then go and grab yourselves some holiday cheer!
Carry on,
xox

http://www.huntsvillelifemagazine.com/single-post/2016/12/18/A-LESSON-IN-HUMANITY

Behind Every Great Man…

This is making the rounds on social media and I adore it! So, of course, I had to share it just in case you haven’t seen it yet.
Big candy cane kisses,
xox

The Scars A Smile Hides

I don’t know about you guys but I love “unknown”. “Unknown” is so wise and says the greatest shit. Which leads me to believe “unknown” knew I needed to remember this now more than ever.

Carry on,
xox

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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